100 Bad Dates: #23

Date #23 was a closet freak which (as far as freaks go) is probably the least appealing kind. I, myself, am a fan of letting the freak flag fly and allowing people to make decisions based on all the info. Ah, well, to each his own.

December 14, 2009; 11:50 AM • by The Checkout Girl

Date #23 was a closet freak which (as far as freaks go) is probably the least appealing kind. I, myself, am a fan of letting the freak flag fly and allowing people to make decisions based on all the info. Ah, well, to each his own.

After Date #23 and I had gone out a few times, his mother (with whom he lived) insisted on meeting me. Having been on my own since I was a teen, I found the whole thing less sweet and more creepy. He told me I had to go to their place, as his mother was agoraphobic and never left the house. It was all very Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

We pulled up to the trailer he shared with his mom and older brother. It didn’t look like a bad place, but when he opened the door, it was a disaster. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, and there was a significant layer of ash on everything. From somewhere in the smoke, I heard a voice.

“Well! Don’t just stand there! Come in!”

It wasn’t a friendly voice.

We stepped a little further into the house, and I saw her: a short, chubby woman with Crystal Gayle-length hair worn in a dinner plate-size bun, and a mean face. She told us to sit down. Date #23’s brother sat next to her. They were both drinking Pepsis, and there were many empty cans on the coffee table in front of them.

She gave me the third (fourth? fifth?) degree, as she chain smoked like she might die tomorrow and needed to finish the carton of cigs she had started that morning. She asked about my family, my education, and my job with the PGA Tour, wanting to know if I’d met any famous golfers.

“You ever meet Greg Norman? He’s handsome. They call him The Shark.”

She chewed the words and spit them out, including the added bonus of flying saliva and cigarette smoke.

I told her I hadn’t met him, due to injuries he had suffered and his subsequent retirement (which was ended by his subsequent subsequent un-retirement – yeah, I still keep up). Disappointment further clouded her face.

Date #23 noticed my tight, polite smile.

“I’m going to show her my room. We’ll be back.”

She shrugged, having lost interest in me after the Greg Norman thing.

We walked to the back of the trailer to a small, messy room stuffed with comic books. The bed was a futon that looked like it had been unfolded for years. It was covered with junk.

Date #23 told me to have a seat. He sat down next to me, picked up a stuffed raccoon and set it on his lap. He spoke, sadly.

“Well, this is where I live.”

“It’s nice,” I lied.

“And this is Mrs. HisLastName”.

“Oh, uh, she’s cute.”

He told me the raccoon was his best friend growing up and kept him company after his dad left. He went on to say that when he was 12 years old he had a ceremony to marry the raccoon and started calling her by his last name.

“Heh, that’s funny,” I said, thinking that 12 was a bit old for that sort of thing.

He turned the raccoon over and showed me where they had consummated their marriage. There was a penis-size hole in the bottom. I reminded myself that he had this crazy scene for a home life and that I had certainly masturbated furiously (and probably distastefully) A LOT at that age.

But he went on.

“And she’s satisfied me ever since.”

My mind raced with absolute panic. I told Date #23 we should get going. He sighed. I knew he trusted me with the truth about himself and I had let him down, but it was just too much.

We walked through the living room, where his mom and brother were still sitting on the couch. I told them both it was nice to meet them, but got no response. Instead she asked Date #23 when he would be home and told him to bring Pepsi.

He dropped me off at my house and asked if I wanted to go to a movie that weekend. I told him I wasn’t sure, but he should call me about it. He never did. I guess we both realized that I could never compete with the raw sexuality of a stuffed woodland creature… I didn’t even want to try. Besides, there was definitely No Vacancy at that Bates Motel.

The Checkout Girl, originally from San Diego, now proudly claims Richmond as her hometown. She can’t swim or drive stick; but she twirls baton, tap dances, and does a crazygood Marilyn Monroe impersonation. In the movie of her life, she’d like to be played by Liv Tyler, but realistically knows it would probably be her sister, Mia. She writes her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, as well as the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she’s found a pretty good guy.

December 14, 2009 11:50 AM 15